


The Throw

by irisbleufic



Series: Playing for Keeps [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Alliances, Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blackmail, Consequences, Court of Owls, Dark Comedy, Disability, Do not translate without permission or copy to another site/app, Drama, Enemies, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Drama, Gotham City Police Department, Grief/Mourning, Heroes to Villains, Humor, Interconnectedness, Intersex Character, Intrigue, Jerome Valeska Lives, Jewish Character, Journalism, Lies, Loss, M/M, Making Jim Gordon Suffer, Mystery, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05, Secrets, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, The Rogues (DCU) As Family, Trans Character, Twins, Villains, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: “Speaking of, did you read to the end of the piece?” Jeremiah replied. “My name comes up.”“It usually does,” laughed Bruce, exasperated, raising the paper again. “Right alongside mine.”“Context,” Jeremiah seethed, stabbing his eggs with savagery that shouldn’t have been shocking.Bruce caught his breath, which told Olga that he’d gotten to the bit even she was surprised about.“Public speculation has begun to address the notion that Mr. Valeska’s opinion of his late twin, whose final resting place is in Stoker, has changed,” he read aloud. “Otherwise, why not let that specter rest?”Jeremiah met Bruce’s pensive gaze, looking both vindicated and sorry he’d made such a fuss.“I thought we had an understanding with Vale. What’s that parting shot supposed to mean?”
Relationships: 514A & Hugo Strange, 514A & Jerome Valeska, 514A & Kathryn Monroe, 514A/Jerome Valeska, Bruce Wayne & Jeremiah Valeska & Valerie Vale, Ecco & Ivy Pepper & Selina Kyle & Bridgit Pike, Ecco & Jeremiah Valeska, Ecco/Ivy Pepper (Gotham), Hugo Strange & Everyone, Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon & Jeremiah Valeska, Jim Gordon & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Olga & Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Olga & Valerie Vale, Oswald Cobblepot & Edward Nygma & Olga, Selina Kyle & Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle & Ivy Pepper & Bridgit Pike, Selina Kyle & Victor Zsasz, Selina Kyle/Bridgit Pike, Victor Fries & Bridgit Pike, Victor Fries & Everyone
Series: Playing for Keeps [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300913
Kudos: 42





	1. Composition

Despite Oswald’s periodic efforts at offering Olga an outrageous raise to bump her five-day week at the Van Dahl Estate up to a seven-day one, she consistently turned him down. She’d come to enjoy Saturdays and Sundays working at Wayne Manor, because they were peaceful in comparison. There was no thirteen-year-old pyromaniac to worry about.

For a Saturday morning in mid-June, it was unusually cool and rainy. Olga was in the midst of serving a late breakfast to Bruce and Jeremiah when the laid back, staid atmosphere turned volatile.

Jeremiah brought the end of his fork down on the tabletop so forcefully that even Bruce jumped.

“I suppose you haven’t caught wind of this,” he said with scarcely restrained fury. “The nerve.”

Olga refilled his teacup, pretending she hadn’t seen the mundane looking headline over his shoulder.

Bruce stopped cutting into his omelet, staring at the back page of the _Gotham Gazette_ , which concealed Jeremiah’s face as he continued to skim the front. He shook his head as Jeremiah lowered the paper, glancing at Olga as she came around his side of the table.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ve seen worse,” Bruce said evenly. “I’ll call our press manager.”

“It’s not like _that_ ,” Jeremiah sighed, passing Bruce the paper. “Not quite. See for yourself.”

Olga took the opportunity to skim the first few paragraphs over Bruce’s shoulder while she refilled his demitasse with dark roast from the French press. It was a curious op-ed, especially coming from Valerie Vale, who usually didn’t subject them to such ambivalent scrutiny.

“I don’t see the problem,” Bruce said, lowering the paper after a minute. “All I see is coverage of our most recent public works projects, with emphasis on our improvements to Stoker Cemetery. We’ve been talking for months about how run down some parts of it are.”

“Speaking of, did you read to the end of the piece?” Jeremiah replied. “My name comes up.”

“It usually does,” laughed Bruce, exasperated, raising the paper again. “Right alongside mine.”

“Context,” Jeremiah seethed, stabbing his eggs with savagery that shouldn’t have been shocking.

Bruce caught his breath, which told Olga that he’d gotten to the bit even she was surprised about.

“Public speculation has begun to address the notion that Mr. Valeska’s opinion of his late twin, whose final resting place is in Stoker, has changed,” he read aloud. “Otherwise, why not let that specter rest?”

Jeremiah met Bruce’s pensive gaze, looking both vindicated and sorry he’d made such a fuss.

“I thought we had an understanding with Vale. What’s that parting shot supposed to mean?”

Bruce pondered for about half a minute, and then shrugged. “Olga, what do you make of it?”

Olga knew what her interpretation was by now. In light of Bruce’s invitation, she would share.

“What is left of clown man’s cult has grown. They continue to leave…offerings at grave. Beer cans. Needles. Graffiti. Crass, but is useful. This prevents mess elsewhere in city, _da_?”

“That’s what Vale is saying?” Jeremiah asked incredulously. “If you ask me, what’s crass _is_ the mess they leave. Plus the slogan someone put on…” He closed his eyes. “Forgive me. Your involvement ended at funding the burial because, at the time, I requested as much. We can only guess who the Coroner got hold of for that hideous epitaph. I refused their calls.”

“Then replace hideous tombstone,” Olga suggested. “You are doing upkeep to begin with.”

“Olga, that’s a brilliant thought,” Bruce said, suddenly brightening. “We shouldn’t stop there.”

Jeremiah regarded him with a glib, but uneasy smile. “What, rebury him here on the grounds?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, disregarding Jeremiah’s instant snit. “That’s exactly what we should do.”

“How do we even know he was properly reburied?” Jeremiah countered. “It’s not as if anyone went back to check. We had more pressing concerns while the city was cut off—like eating. For crying out loud, I left him in his open grave with…” He shot Olga a wary glance. “ _You_ hardly took the time to rebury him after regaining consciousness. The city was in chaos. His remains could be anywhere.”

Bruce shrugged. “The grave got filled in at some point. Nobody working on the grounds at Stoker between reunification and now filed a report. I’m willing to bet Jim ordered some officers from the precinct to haul the casket back to Stoker and take care of it while evacuation was underway. He would’ve been reckless to leave a trophy like Jerome’s body lying around while the city went to hell.” 

Olga started to clear empty dishes, deciding she’d stay out of the remainder of the conversation.

“Shy of exhumation,” Jeremiah said, “there’s no way to determine if his remains are still there.”

“That’s what we’ll do,” Bruce replied. “I’ll tell Jim to contact the Coroner. They won’t refuse.”

“ _Then_ what?” Jeremiah asked, sounding lost. “Call the press to make a statement?”

“Exactly,” Bruce replied. “It’s as strong a response to Vale’s challenge as we can give. If this is what the public’s already thinking, they’ll look even more kindly on us when we follow through. Jim won’t agree to this without another autopsy to confirm identity, especially not if they filled the grave as it was. There’d be nothing but bones. After the Coroner’s finished, we’ll cremate and put him in the mausoleum, or—” he cut himself short when he realized Jeremiah had gone cold-eyed with displeasure “—scatter the ashes, for all I care.”

“You’ve always cared too much, dear heart,” Jeremiah said in defeat, reaching for Bruce’s hand, “but I can’t fault you for that. I fell for you anyway, irrational sense of responsibility be damned.”

Olga was speaking again before she could bite her tongue. “You must act quickly on this idea.”

That was how, exactly a week on, Olga found herself tasked with driving them to Stoker to oversee the proceedings. It seemed that her advice in the matter made her complicit in accomplishing it.

When the backhoe hit something solid metal, Olga saw Jeremiah stiffen next to Bruce from her vantage point behind them. One of Jeremiah’s hands twitched at his side; Bruce clasped it, holding it fast.

Commissioner Gordon impatiently checked his watch, and the Coroner looked flat-out bored.

Olga didn’t care that she was standing too close. She was more desensitized to this sort of thing than the young men in front of her, and she had to admit to a level of lurid curiosity. As the Coroner and his assistants opened the casket, Bruce dragged Jeremiah back several steps.

Backpedaling so they didn’t run into her, Olga turned her back to _them_ on instinct. She’d had the fleeting impression they were being watched, and…it wasn’t just an impression. Beyond a nearby mausoleum, there was a familiar photographer snapping the whole affair.

When Olga heard Gordon mutter _Empty_ and the Coroner mutter _Impossible_ , she turned back to the boys. Jeremiah looked ready to bolt.

“We’re not doing this again,” Bruce said with quiet apprehension. “Stay with me. _Please_.”

“Try to run,” Olga warned, heartbroken at Bruce’s unabashed relief, “and I will restrain you.”

Jeremiah snapped out of the panic that had gripped him, spotting the photographer instantly.

“Bruce, who is that?” he asked, his voice wavering between anger and paranoia. “ _Who_ —”

“Olga, please go deal with her,” Bruce said, pale with fatigue. “Tell her our plans for the body.”

Jeremiah struggled against Bruce’s grasp, but didn’t try to run. “But they said there’s _no_ —”

“We won’t let her get close enough to find out,” Bruce said, spinning Jeremiah to face him.

As Olga turned to march toward the photographer, she saw Jeremiah sag in Bruce’s embrace.

“Touching tableau,” Valerie Vale said, lowering her camera as Olga arrived in front of her. “Sincere. The throw on that shot is just… _wow_.”

Olga glanced over her shoulder. Bruce gestured at Gordon and the Coroner. Relieved to see them close the casket, she turned back to Valerie.

“What? Is nonsense,” Olga scoffed, realizing she had no idea what Valerie’s statement meant.

“Throw’s the distance between lens and subject,” Valerie explained. “Means it’ll be amazing.”

Olga watched Bruce wrap Jeremiah back in his arms. “Next is cremation. Boring. You must go.”

Valerie patted her camera cheerfully, letting it dangle around her neck. “Got what I need.”

With her arms tensely folded, Olga stationed herself on the mausoleum stairs and watched.


	2. Imposition

Selina leaned on a long greenhouse table full of seedlings as she watched Ivy and Harley work. Bridgit was out front waiting for their dinner guest.

In the weeks since Zsasz had caught the two of them fighting in a warehouse over who got to kill Strange, and then killed Strange _for_ them, they’d been working through their shit. Selina now had a shred of sympathy for Bruce regarding his Jeremiah situation, because it turned out working through shit involved an embarrassing amount of fucking.

“No offense, babe,” Harley said, attempting to imitate Ivy’s skillful wielding of clippers, “but this is the most boring part of gardening _ever_.”

Ivy shrugged, cheerfully indifferent as she clipped a couple more branches off the head-high, overgrown cherry tree she was working on. She was working with the duller pair by far, yet still getting the job done on her tree more efficiently than Harley was on hers.

“Just let ’em take over the space,” Selina teased. “Then, it’d be even more like a jungle in here.”

“Bad for the trees, worse for the other plants,” Ivy said, hacking at a thick branch. “No thanks.”

“I’m glad this ain’t a race,” Harley said, wiping her forehead on her weeding gloves. “I’d lose.”

Selina checked her watch. She had a different one for every day of the month, let alone week.

“Hey, anybody remember what time Victor was supposed to be here? He’s holdin’ Bridgit up.”

“I didn’t think Zsasz was comin’ for dinner?” Harley asked, baffled. “I thought it was just—”

“It _is_ just Fries,” Ivy said, sticking her tongue out as she continued to hack. “Same first name.”

“That’s gotta get annoying,” Harley said, and then whistled at Ivy’s botch-job. “Havin’ trouble?”

“You wish,” Ivy said, putting the entirety of her arms into the next protracted snipping attempt.

“How ’bout I just call ’em Fries and Zsasz until you learn to use context clues,” Selina groused.

“You’re so _mean_ to me, puddin’,” Harley pouted, and then cackled when Selina flipped her off. “Never gonna forgive me for that, are ya?”

“You were kicking my ass in a drained swimming pool at the time,” Selina shot back. “So no.”

“That was the old me,” Harley said, batting her eyelashes. “Ecco’s a bitch of the past.”

Selina rolled her eyes, pushing off the table to stand up. “Sure—and so’s Jeremiah, right?”

Ivy groaned. “Would you two just knock it off? Christ, Cat, if you expect to move in here—”

“I never agreed to that,” Bridgit said snippily, striding in with their guest. “Look who’s late.”

“I said I was sorry,” said Fries, abashedly. He still looked hella weird in his iceman suit, but working for Wayne Industries had advantages—it was streamlined now. “Ms. Kyle.”

Selina saluted him, almost glad to see the weirdo. He was sweet once you got to know him.

“Hiya,” Harley said, thunking down her clippers on the table, coming at him with a hand extended. “Harley Eccles, Harley Quinn for short. That’s my middle name. Tryin’ it out.”

“Charmed, Ms. Quinn,” Fries said, accepting the handshake. “Is Ms. Pepper over there?”

“She sure is,” Selina said, watching Ivy refuse to back down from hacking at the branch. “Ives!”

“One sec,” Ivy panted, halting her efforts to press her thumb along each of the clippers’ blades.

Bridgit had gone around the table to see what the matter was, but her timing was unfortunate.

Ivy turned sideways, her elbow knocking into Bridgit’s shoulder. The blade sliced her thumb.

“Fuck!” she yelled, dropping the shears in shock. “Mother _fucker_! That fucking _stings_!”

Selina rushed over to examine the wound, realizing Fries was behind her. “Bring her to the table.”

Bridgit had already run for some of the clean rags stored in the corner. “Goddamn it! Sorry!”

“You didn’t do nothin’,” Harley said, peering at Ivy’s thumb. “Does it need stitches? Call Lee.”

“If you have medical supplies,” Fries said, taking Ivy’s hand in his gloved ones, “I can do it.”

Ivy grimaced, realizing she was about to drip blood all over some seedlings. She yanked her hand back, but several sizable drops splashed on a wilted petunia. Harley’s gasp of shock would’ve drawn Selina’s stare, except her eyes were riveted on the plant.

“Uh…guys? Ladies, guy—whatever!” Selina pointed at the petunia, her hand shaking. “It’s…”

“Nah, you’ve gotta see this,” Harley said, yanking Selina over by her jacket sleeve. “It’s closing!”

They were all gaping at Ivy’s thumb, which had nearly finished healing itself, leaving a fine scar.

“So, uh, I never knew I could do that?” Ivy said shakily. “I guess…come to think of it, I haven’t gotten cut since the whole age-up thing thanks to that Indian Hill freak.”

“See that plant?” Selina said, indicating the petunia. It hadn’t just turned green again; it had grown several inches. “Not to disparage your skills, but it was dead. Your blood did that.”

Fries glanced back and forth between the plant and Ivy, like he didn’t know which was spookier.

“Are you doing okay?” Bridgit asked. “I mean, yeah, that’s a lot, but we’ve seen way weirder.”

“Because we’re Indian Hill freaks, too?” Fries retorted, and then looked Ivy in the eye. “You had no idea you could regenerate damaged tissue, or revive dead tissue?”

Ivy shook her head, shrugging, at a loss. “All I’ve ever known is that I’m great with plants. Like, we’re talkin’ since I was a kid. I can get anything to grow, even the weird shit. You should see the ghost pipe patches I’ve got over here, they’re _dope_.”

“This is going to sound pathetic, like I can’t move on, but I’ve been able to continue my cryogenics research thanks to Mr. Wayne and Mr. Valeska.”

“The Waynes,” Harley corrected. “J’s real touchy about that. Changed his name when they got hitched.”

Fries sighed, and then continued. “I’ve already catered to a select handful of private clients, placing their loved ones’ bodies in storage. I’ve perfected my technique. Thawing now has a near one-hundred-percent success rate in trials.”

Selina stared at him. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been doin’ test runs on animals. Have you?”

“Rats and primates, but that’s beside the point,” Fries went on. “It’s just, her blood might…”

“Want some to keep on hand for cases you can’t wake up with a simple thaw?” Ivy asked.

“It only took a few drops to restore a small organism,” Fries said, indicating the plant. “A bag or two would last years. It…might even reverse my condition. I’d use it to attempt that before anything else. One human trial that won’t hurt anyone but me, if harm is inevitable.”

Ivy shrugged. “Get the right supplies. Next time you’re back, go to town. Oh, and pay me.” 

Selina wanted to tell Ivy to think it over first, but she also knew Fries had never been one to lie. She also knew the poor guy wanted to be normal again. That was an improvement over wanting to be dead—although the fatalism was still there, given he’d risk his life to test it.

“Name your price,” Fries agreed. “My grant covers anything I deem necessary for research.”

Still, Selina wanted to say _something_ —so did Bridgit—but the clown beat them to the punch.

“Fuck it up,” Harley said warningly to Fries, “and I’ll fuck _you_ up. I’m awful good at it.”

Bridgit folded her arms, staring at the greenhouse ceiling. “Now who’s a corporate sell-out?”

Ivy gave everyone except Fries a sour look. “What’s wrong with you jerks? It’s a good cause.”

Selina patted Ivy’s arm, and then offered Fries the petunia. “How ’bout you dissect this first?”

“No _fucking_ way!” Ivy said, swiping it from her. “He can experiment on himself, thanks.”

“I’ll have my assistant bring what’s needed later,” Fries said. “That way, it’ll be done quickly.”

Selina had some choice points to raise about Bruce and his husband, ethical practices thereof, but Bridgit gave her a let-it-go look. She threw up her hands and stalked directly into the house.

Bridgit followed at a run, catching Selina by the shoulders as soon as they slowed in the kitchen.

“You don’t trust him, do you?” she asked, turning Selina to face her. “Doubting my judgment?”

Selina leaned in and kissed her. “Nah, see, that’s what’s weird. I do trust him. I trust _you_.”


	3. Juxtaposition

Kathryn stared at her grandfather clock, tapping her fingers against the tabletop. Her delivery was late.

 _I’ve come into possession of something advantageous_ , her courier had texted earlier. _I’ll be there by nightfall_.

Lying low since her improbable escape from the GCPD nearly five years before had been torture, although she had Barnes to thank for her survival. Effective enough for a diversion, certainly, but he hadn’t been Punisher enough to kill James Gordon and Alfred Pennyworth.

Deprived of purpose and leadership, the Court of Owls had dispersed back to their lives of aristocratic banality. Of course, participation had always been cyclical. They knew full well that they—or their children, or their grandchildren—might one day be summoned back to duty.

In hiding, Kathryn had retained a small army of Talons. One by one, to increasingly perilous errands, she’d lost them. The two she had left, she kept close to home, only seldom sending them out.

None of the ones she’d lost had restored to her what she’d so ruthlessly, disconsolately sought.

Her remaining pair had proved useful. Within days of the bridges’ destruction at the hands of Jeremiah Valeska—now elevated to the status of Bruce Wayne’s spouse, the sheer _absurdity_ of it after what those two had done while Gotham was cut off—the Talons had caught a rat.

Strange hadn’t claimed to definitively know the location of her quarry, but he traded sufficiently in information to give her a lead. _Let me go_ , he’d said, nervously eyeing the Talons, _and I’ll tell you the where to find it. You can be the judge of what you see._

Kathryn had backhanded him— _it_ , the sheer insult—but not before getting her information. She’d left him in the Talons’ custody, dressed for the night, and gone out into the lawless borderlands of the Narrows. She’d decided that, if she didn’t find her prize, she’d have Strange killed.

The Foxglove’s formidable Mistress Lucy had sent her into the alley behind the derelict nightclub where her floating brothel had settled. Just as Lucy had claimed, they’d expelled the young man for signs of suspected contagion—high fever, delirium, and nosebleeds.

Five, her long-lost treasure, was near collapse when she’d returned home with him. She’d asked Strange on his way out if he could save the gravely ill young man, but the best he’d been able to do was sedate him and suggest the services of, how had he put it, _one of their other mutual projects_.

Victor Fries had nearly denied Kathryn entry to his makeshift fortress. The warehouse that had once held the likes of such corpses as Jerome Valeska was equipped with everything the disgraced physician could possibly need.

 _I leave him in your keeping_ , Kathryn had said, _until the city’s former glory is restored. When that happens, I will help you achieve your ends—and you will help me achieve mine_. Reminded of something her Talons had reported the night the bridges blew, she’d sent them on an errand that very night. _I’d like you to help me with one more thing,_ she’d told Fries. _My bodyguards will bring it._

Fries had been visibly perturbed to find himself in possession of two frozen subjects on Kathryn’s account, but he hadn’t put up a fight. _If you’ll let me use them in trials when the time comes, I don’t care what you do with them once they’re breathing_.

It had been easy to wait until reunification to push Fries for trials and results, especially since he had gained employment and access to a lab. She’d had enough time to resent herself for cloaking the truth as a lie in order to coax Five into being manipulated toward the Court’s ends.

What the Court had demanded of her twenty years ago had seemed fair at the time. Serving as a surrogate, carrying fraternal twins engineered with a combination of her and the Waynes’ reproductive cells (pilfered out of cryo-storage at what was then Pinewood Farms by an enterprising, ambitious young Strange) had seemed like a small price to pay for Court leadership.

Kathryn had been kept in the dark at every stage of her pregnancy, sedated for the most routine of ultrasounds and examinations. Nearly full term, she’d awakened from anesthesia for what the Court’s physicians, attended by Strange, told her was an emergency C-section. They said the child had survived, and that Martha Wayne, too, was due any day with her own first child.

 _Just one?_ Kathryn had demanded, only to be informed, with clinical precision, that her ovum and Martha Wayne’s, both fertilized with custom-selected bits and pieces of Thomas’s DNA, had fused. _Chimera_ was the term they’d used.

Kathryn hadn’t been able think of the infant as 514A. She’d steeled herself and said she wanted to keep him, to look after her organization’s asset, until such time as Pinewood Farms, which would eventually be relocated to Indian Hill, needed to take custody.

Two years she’d had the asset, had _Five_ , until Strange came to claim him. The next time she saw him, she’d let him believe she’d mistaken him for Martha’s brat. She’d called herself and the Court his parents, selling it as a metaphor to the embittered teenager.

The grandfather clock chimed, shaking Kathryn out of troubled reminiscence. Moments later, there was a knock at the door. She went to answer. 

Both Talons were there. They’d intercepted her courier, who was also her conflicted double agent, and shown him inside. Fries carried a cooler.

“My assistant and a delivery team are on their way from the lab with both pods. My employers have never asked the identities of the loved ones I store for private clients. These two have borne other names since post-reunification transfer to Wayne Industries. I’ll be glad to have such a liability off my hands. Ironic, isn’t it, that your repayment of this debt is a pittance in comparison to what I’ve risked?”

“Enough with the theatrics,” Kathryn said, joining them in the hall, leading them into the elevator. “Tell your team to meet us at the back entrance. The basement level’s been kitted to your exact specifications. You’ll have until midnight, and I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Which one of us is the Fairy Godmother?” Fries asked bitterly, silent the rest of the way down.

Kathryn watched with admiration as Fries prepared the first subject—the cast-off, the unlucky one, the trial run. Unthawing a body in less than perfect condition was gruesome, but the blood transfusion Fries delivered using the mysterious cooler’s contents transformed it.

“This goes beyond fairytale stuff,” Kathryn marveled, watching Fries administer a heavy sedative to the scarred, shallowly breathing monster.

“Do what you want once he regains consciousness,” Fries said, “but if he gets loose, it’s on you.”

“I always have use for a pet psychopath,” Kathryn replied, watching him prepare her chimera—her child, her _heir_ —for the procedure. “Have no fear.”

“They’ll both be afraid when they wake,” Fries warned when the thaw was done, starting the transfusion. “They might not remember who they are.”

“You forget how easily I mold minds,” Kathryn said, watching Five’s cool, pale skin regain life.


End file.
